


watching me cut my teeth

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, Future Fic, Get Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:51:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Fourth year, Harry wanted to ask Draco to the Yule Ball.Four years after the war, he finally gets his dance.





	watching me cut my teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runboyrun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runboyrun/gifts).



> written for hal! i asked for a fluffy drarry prompt and she suggested, "asking to the yule ball." thus, this happened! this was fun to write; thanks to hannah (cathect) for betaing, as always!

It’s an insane idea, Harry knows.

Totally ridiculous, downright _mental_.

And yet, the buggering idea won’t leave him alone.

It crossed his mind idly, the instant McGonagall brought up the ball, and it’s plagued him ever since. Doesn’t help that who’s taking who to the dance is the buzz of the castle; it’s all anyone talks about at the tables in the Great Hall, or by the fireplace in the commons. Names thrown about, pitiful retellings of rejections or humorous tales of triumph shared often. Hushed discussions of who so-and-so supposedly wants to take, or wishful murmurs of _oh, I wish they’d ask me_ float around like breezy winds.

Harry is mostly thankful few of these mutterings follow him around. While he’s not overly fond of the public ire he’s somehow earned, it has some perks.

And really, if Harry had his way, he wouldn’t go to the ball at all. The lesson McGonagall led was abysmal, and Harry’s convinced he’s got two left feet. He’s not exactly eager to trot out in front of his peers and trollop all over some poor bird or bloke’s feet. That, coupled with the simmering certainty of rejection has Harry positively withdrawn from trying to find a date.

The nattering thought in his head only makes matters worse. Honestly, what is he thinking? Asking _him_ to the ball. Like that wouldn’t get him laughed out of school, or better yet hexed half to death. And yet the thought won’t stop rebounding around his skull like a loose Cornish Pixie.

He thinks about it most often at meal times, when Draco Malfoy sits across the hall and looks busy and happy, proudly sporting a **_POTTER STINKS_** badge pinned to his robes. Harry eats absently, thinking of all the ways he could even try to start that conversation. He always, without fail, subsequently thinks of all the ways it could go wrong, as well. Those thoughts sufficiently deter him from even trying.

He doesn’t tell anyone about his ludicrous idea, and even after he’s asked the Patil twins to go with him and Ron he still toys with the idea in his head. He lays awake at night and imagines the ways it could go right, knowing full well he’s indulging in absurd fantasies.

He’d definitely step on Malfoy’s toes, and it would earn him a sneer. But, he thinks, Malfoy would probably correct his form with some sort of backhanded compliment. Harry doesn’t know which of them would lead, or if they’d perhaps switch depending on the tempo or something like that. He’s really not familiar at all with dancing or balls or anything of that sort, and the thought makes his palms clammy.

Come the evening of the ball, Harry is still tinkering with the idea. He looks himself over in the mirror and brushes off a probably imaginary speck of lint from his collar. He wonders what Malfoy will be wearing—something green, no doubt, and probably traditional though far nicer than Ron’s robes. While he still has a moment alone, he imagines briefly the idea of asking Malfoy to dance once the ball has started; he _probably_ wouldn’t get hexed in a room full of students and teachers. Right?

Harry’s not really sure, and before he can consider it further, Ron bursts into their dorm making a fuss.

At the ball, after the first dance with all the champions, Harry falls into a chair, feeling a bit bad when Padma sits beside him with a frown. Ron soon sits beside him, with Parvati sitting beside her sister and wearing a matching, dully upset expression. With Ron in a slump, and the twins ignoring Harry as much as he is them, he lets his attention wonder. First, he looks over the crowd that’s still dancing, and smiles.

Hermione looks brilliant, radiant; Hagrid’s smile is enormous, while his and Madame Maxine’s footsteps hit the floor heavily. Neville and Ginny look sweet, and Seamus drags Dean into the fray quickly. Harry watches and watches until his gaze shifts and ends up on the few people still hanging on the outskirts of the dancefloor.

Malfoy is standing with his lot, all of their arms crossed and frowns on their faces. Harry’s surprised they’re there at all, but he’s not surprised that they all have dressed up for the occasion. It’s a bit intimidating, though it’s easier to see through the crafted appearance when he knows what a git Malfoy is beneath it.

He sighs, heavily—git or not, Harry still wants to ask him to dance.

_Mental_ , he tells himself.

Malfoy looks over and catches Harry watching him. He sneers and flashes Harry two fingers before turning to Pansy. He takes her by the hand and practically drags her out to the floor, and Harry watches—only a little bitter, really—as they twirl into the fray. They dance well and swift, though it looks rather mechanical compared to the careful shuffling or confident footfalls of the couples around them.

Harry watches until the song ends; he tears his gaze away from Malfoy and goes for some punch instead.

_Absolutely mental_ , he tells himself again. Really, what on earth was he thinking?

 

 

 

Hermione plucks the mostly empty mug from his hands and gives him a rough elbow to the ribs. “Go on.” She hisses, low enough that the other idle guests don’t hear but loud enough that Harry can’t pretend to mishear. “Look at him, he’s _waiting_.” She insists, this time poking him in the side and trying to push him toward the decently busy dancefloor. “Harry,” she groans, though she’s hardly given up on trying to propel him forward.

“He’s not waiting for _me_ ,” Harry murmurs back. He can’t help but stare across the dancefloor, and swallows the lump of nerves in his throat. He knows the man a few yards away isn’t waiting for him, but his heart skips a bit at the thought that _maybe_ , Harry’s wrong. Maybe Hermione’s right ( _she usually is_ , a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Ron tells him).

“Harry, he’s staring.” Hermione whispers before leaning slightly out of his personal space. She flashes a polite smile and wave toward Draco Malfoy, and gets a curt nod in return. “He’s _waiting_.” She says again, this time bracing her hand on Harry’s lower back and outright shoving him to the dancefloor.

Even from a distance, Harry can see the blond’s eyes widen. Emboldened and terrified in equal measure, Harry catches himself before he trips and steadies his gait. He tries to walk with confidence, tries to stride rather than hobble. Given how Draco’s eyes are nearly the size of dinner plates by the time Harry stands in front of him, he thinks he maybe managed it. Harry grins and wipes his palms on his robes in what he hopes is a discreet manner.

“Potter.” Draco says with a slight incline of his head. His lips stay parted even after he says Harry’s name, as though he might say more, but no other words are forthcoming.

“Draco.” Harry replies with a similar gesture. He takes a brief second to look him up and down. “You’re looking good,” he says honestly. The robes sit elegantly on Draco’s frame, the hem just barely brushing the polished form of the hall they’re in. The buttons gleam in the low light and the high collar looks impossibly regal. Harry licks his lips anxiously and forces himself to meet Draco’s eyes.

There’s now a blush smattering across his cheeks. “I suppose I could say the same for you.” Draco’s onceover of Harry is far more blatant and crude, but Harry revels in it nonetheless. He does look good, if he says so himself—he’ll have to thank Luna later, she’s a phenomenal tailor and Harry is pants at color coordination. “Is there something I can help you with?” Draco drawls with a voice that lacks the constant snobbishness that it held in the past.

“Fancy a dance?” Harry asks as he finally holds out his hand, palm up.

Draco’s eyes widen again. “Pardon?” He asks, though Harry catches a glimpse of his hand twitching at his side like he might take Harry’s offered one.

“I’m asking you to dance, Draco.” Harry tries not to put too much emphasis on his name, then decides it doesn’t matter. Let Draco call him _Potter_ all he likes; they aren’t in school anymore and the past is almost four years behind them. He flexes his fingers and reigns in the urge to shift impatiently from foot to foot.

Draco’s gaze flits from Harry’s palm to his face, then back again. Without a word and moving ever so cautiously, Draco raises his hand and slides it to fit against Harry’s. “Alright.” He agrees. “Lead the way, Harry.” Draco doesn’t trip over his name but the blush is back, and it stokes the fire of confidence burning in Harry’s chest.

Harry does lead the way. As Draco settles one hand on his shoulder and Harry settles his own free hand on the blond’s waist, Harry’s grateful Hermione forced him into those dance lessons last year. It’d been for her and Ron’s wedding, but the memories are still fresh enough that Harry doesn’t stumble or step on Draco’s toes. He smiles at Draco as they move in swift, sharp circles around the dancefloor.

“You aren’t as atrocious at this as I might’ve guessed,” Draco remarks after a particularly quick and flourishing twirl. His grip on Harry’s shoulder tightens and doesn’t relent, and it almost seems like he moves closer.

“Hermione,” Harry explains. “Had me in dance lessons so I wouldn’t look like a total prat at the wedding.”

Draco smirks. “I’m shocked,” he teases. “I saw what you were like in fourth year, and you had lessons then.” He points out with a mocking raised eyebrow. “I was anticipating something more along those lines.”

Harry shakes his head with a good-natured laugh. “One lesson with McGonagall doesn’t quite compare to several weeks of lessons with a professional.” They twirl again and Harry dips Draco just the slightest amount before pulling him in close with the secure grip on his waist. “Things change,” he adds, though he doesn’t elaborate and say something like _I rather like my partner better, this time_ or _I don’t have the weight of the world on my shoulders and it makes it easier_ , or anything of that nature.

Draco’s expression sobers but doesn’t quite close off. “I suppose they do,” he agrees.

“Where did you learn?” Harry ask after a bit of silence. They’re still dancing even though the couples around them have traded partners and taken breaks and the like. Harry doesn’t feel inclined to stop, and Draco doesn’t either.

Draco shoots him a disbelieving look.

“It’s polite to ask,” Harry defends. “I’m sure mummy signed you up for the best lessons when you were a tot, and you’ve had a natural skill for it ever since. _But_ , I was trying to be polite.” Harry grins at the end to keep his tone and the mood around them appropriately light.

Draco rolls his eyes. “It was father, actually. Purebloods are— _were_ especially keen on large gatherings with plenty of arranged marriages, and he felt it was important for me to be prepared.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t think I’ve actually danced _since_ the Yule Ball, to be honest.”

Harry nods along, and the words come out before he can think better of it. “I wanted to ask you to that, you know.”

Draco abruptly stops dancing and Harry teeters on his feet so as not to fall completely against him. “Pardon?” He says again, much sharper and incredulous than before. He doesn’t step out of the embrace but Harry can feel him pulling away, bit by bit.

“I—I wanted to ask you to the Yule Ball,” Harry admits again. His neck is burning and he’s painfully aware of his palm getting clammy where he holds Draco’s hand. “I didn’t obviously. But I’d wanted to. Talked myself in and out of it at least a dozen times or so.” Harry’s rambling now, but he isn’t sure how to stop. “You’ve always been such a prat, but, at least, fourth year wasn’t the worst you’d been. I’m not even sure how the idea got into my head to be honest, but it did. I agonized about it quite a lot.”

“Clearly,” Draco says faintly.

“But I didn’t work up the nerve, and then everything went bollocks up—the ball, the tournament, _everything_ —and…” Harry swallows air greedily, not caring that it probably makes him seem a bit mad. “And then I saw you were here, and Hermione is determined when she wants to be, you know, and she—?”

Draco kisses him them, and Harry’s words cease between one breath and the next. He kisses back and marvels at the soft press of lips. He tries to ignore how his lips are absurdly chapped, but it’s hard to do so when he can’t stop thinking about how soft Draco’s are. He drinks in the sweet, delicate kiss and thinks about how it doesn’t hold a candle to all the angry, biting ones he imagined before.

They break apart with quiet, matching gasps.

Draco’s eyes are wide again and his blush is even worse, but he’s smiling ever so slightly. Harry grins back, knowing full well he certainly looks far too pleased. He leans in to brush a kiss against Draco’s cheek, then, because he can. He’s rewarded with another soft gasp and Draco tilting his cheek into the touch.

“I probably would’ve hexed you,” Draco admits.

“I figured as much. You, or one of your lot.”

Draco moves closer. “The _Prophet_ will have a field day, you know. There will be riots in the streets.”

“I don’t much care.” Harry says.

Draco studies him for a moment, gaze heavy. “Nor do I,” he decides. “Let’s get out of here, hm?” The hand on Harry’s shoulder glides down his arm until they can link fingers.

Harry kisses him again in lieu of a proper answer.


End file.
